The summer looks out from her brazen tower,
	Through the flashing bars of July.

Francis Thompson.    

	Loud is the summer’s busy song
	The smallest breeze can find a tongue,
	While insects of each tiny size
	Grow teasing with their melodies,
	Till noon burns with its blistering breath
	Around, and day lies still as death.

Clare.    

	The linden, in the fervors of July,
	Hums with a louder concert. When the wind
	Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime,
	As when some master-hand exulting sweeps
	The keys of some great organ, ye give forth
	The music of the woodland depths, a hymn
	Of gladness and of thanks.

Bryant.